


we're pretty good at stumbling, huh?

by faerie_constellations



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Cigarettes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting to Know Each Other, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Loss, Moving On, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Redemption, Self-Hatred, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and starts thinking he's worthy of being duncan's dad, maccready and sosu bond over their grief, maccready slowly becomes a good man in his eyes, rated for maccready's language more than anything, so everything romantic between them is awkward and clumsy but fluffy as hell, they have to move on first, they haven't been in love in what feels like a long time, when they get there eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerie_constellations/pseuds/faerie_constellations
Summary: 𝗢𝗥 two heartbroken assholes being introspective, attempting to better themselves, and realizing they can fall in love again✽ ✽ ✽They struck their contract in Goodneighbor, and the terms were simple. Two-hundred fifty caps for two weeks. Seventy-five caps for every week after that. He’ll shoot the bad guys who want to kill her, and she’ll duck her head so he gets a clear shot. It’s also stipulated here that he won’t threaten to shoot her again, and she won’t cry (too much).Entering this partnership, however, neither MacCready nor Nerissa noticed the fine print: by helping me save my son, you’ll end up helping me save myself, too.Funny how that works out.✽ 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑 ✽
Relationships: Nate/Female Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Lucy (Fallout), Robert Joseph MacCready/Sole Survivor
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. MacCready

**Author's Note:**

> the final affinity dialogue with maccready bugged me, so i'm writing how i would have wanted this romance to play out. with maccready being self-reflexive, exploring his relationship with lucy, spending time mourning his dead wife, and actively working on moving on as opposed to hooking up with the sosu just cos she confessed to him (that's how i read the romance dialogue, at least). also wished the sosu spent more time reflecting on the loss of their spouse and the kidnapping of their kid, and that their pain was more apparent in dialogue options
> 
> all-in-all, just wanted to write about two heartbroken dolts getting over their first loves, and healing themselves and each other
> 
> feedback is always welcome <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready threatens to shoot his potential boss, but ends up with the job anyway.

They found him too fucking fast for his liking.

He could pretend that the rifle in his hands was a neck. That would make him feel better. But whose first? That asshole Winlock, or that jackass Barnes? MacCready watches them slink out of the VIP Room, knocking one of those stupid mannequins down as they go. His bones crack from the pressure his grip has on his weapon. It would be so fucking easy for him to just pop th—

MacCready whips his gun towards the far edge of the room. There, towards the corner where the light bends ever so slightly. He inches forward. So the Gunners thought some prick using a stealth boy would be enough to kill one Robert Joseph MacCready, huh? His finger rests on the trigger. They better think again.

He steps forward again. This time, they step back. He hears it from the floorboards that creaked. They flicker into sight, their movement breaking whatever dumbass magic stealth boys have. Then, they disappear again completely. He pushes his rifle forward, the muzzle connecting with something. He feels it from the impact, that something is bone, and muscle, and flesh.

“I’m done playing your games.”

MacCready would’ve pulled the trigger, too. But the threat of a Gunner douchebag dissipates, turning into a repeated mantra: please, no, _sob_ , _cough_. Before him was some lady. Vault Dweller, if that blue suit and that Pip-Boy under her cloak was any indication. Just his goddamn luck. He lowers his rifle, unsure what else to do as this mess of a woman continued crying in front of him.

Should he offer his hand? Should he offer a drink? Hell no. He’s not a charity. Drinks cost caps, and he sure as hell won’t spend any caps on someone he doesn’t even know. Caps are hard enough to come by as is, doesn’t help that he used to run with the Gunners. He swipes a hand over his face and tosses the strap of his rifle over his shoulder. Should he apologize? He could—but it’s her fault anyway, the fucking dumbass. Doe-eyed Vault Dwellers thinking it wise to sneak up on a high-strung man with a .50 in his hands.

But he could apologize. He could.

But it’s absolutely, definitely, one-hundred percently her fucking fault.

He reaches into a pocket in his duster. Takes a pack of cigs and his lighter, both starting to feel heavy in there. Starting to make his hands itch. Should he light her a stick? Maybe it could get her to calm down long enough for them to talk sense. After all, the only thing in this room is him. What else could she be doing here, snooping around like some damn mole rat. He thumbs at the lighter and lights one, drawing it to his lips, taking one long drag.

Yeah, that’s exactly what he needs right now.

She’s covering her mouth with both hands. Trying, maybe, to compose herself. Trying. Failing.

Walking back to his seat, MacCready decides to just wait it out. He sets his rifle on the floor next to him. What else is there to do? He sighs, letting the chatter of the Third Rail and the faint hum of Magnolia’s songs numb his ears to all this sniffling. Just wait it out. He has nowhere else to be, anyway.

In the span of time it took for the Vault Dweller to pull herself together, MacCready finished three cigarettes. No more crying, no more sniffling or sobbing, no more tears. Still shaken, from the look on her face. Still unwilling to talk. And he’s sure she wants to talk. Could’ve left anytime from when he lowered his rifle to when he smashed his third cig into the ash tray, but there she is. Sitting on the floor, with that cloak of hers making her look like an apparition every now and again. That’s how she snuck up to him. No stealth boys, something fancier. Chameleon leather. Rare, from a dangerous source and, he’s willing to bet, very, _very_ expensive. He feels the unrest, it makes his leg bounce. If how she’s handled herself thus far is any indication, then it would also be very, very, _very_ easy to steal. How the hell did a Vault Dweller even manage to get that?

Whatever.

He’s itching for a fourth stick, and why wouldn’t he be? He doesn’t want to be in here—goddamnit, he _isn’t_ even supposed to be in Goodneighbor in the first place. Isn't even supposed to be an independent merc in the Commonwealth of all places. Aggravated, he lights another stick. Another long drag, another forceful exhale. God-fucking-damnit. MacCready was already there, standing in front of those double doors. Med-Tek Research. His rifle was already wet with feral blood, his pack was full of meds and ammo he spent months collecting.

MacCready was already there, and he was determined—he fucking promised himself that he wouldn’t come back out without that damn cure. Funny how that worked out. He can’t help but scoff at himself. He has always been pathetic. The smoke, he almost spits it out. He drives his stick into the ash tray hard. Too hard. The tray ends up flying, clattering onto the ground, littering ash and cigarette butts on the floor. Shit. MacCready doesn't need to hear anything else from Whitechapel, but he's sure as hell not cleaning that up.

Not while she's still here, at least.

He turns his head over at the Vault Dweller. “Lady, can’t say I’m a big fan of people wasting my fuc— _argh—”_ he bites his tongue, stuffing the word back into his throat. He deserves that pain. With how he’s been breaking too many promises lately, MacCready says he deserves more. From his peripheries, he sees her flinch, finally snapping out of whatever stupid trance she fell into.

Starts tapping his fingers on the table, to calm his nerves. Preoccupy his thoughts with something else. Leg’s still bouncing— _tap, tap, tap_. On the tiled floor, _tap, tap, tap_. On the wooden table, _tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap tap tap taptaptaptAP_ it’s too fucking noisy—

he slams his hand onto the table.

And takes a breath. To steady himself.

“Just—” MacCready exhales, intertwining his fingers together. He looks back up at her. A smile graces his face because it’s a slow realization: she might be a client. And if she is then fuck, what a first impression he's made. He doesn’t even want to think about it. He’s spent far too long in this shithole without any work, and if he blew a job offer without knowing… well, he doesn’t think he could hate himself any more than he already does.

So MacCready smiles. An attempt and patch things up between them, maybe? To goad her into finally talking to him so he can leave and drink himself silly? But he feels its insincerity, how it stretches only one side of his face.

The smile tires him out for some reason, he can’t keep it plastered on his face. Instead, he lets his head lull and eyes stare at the floor. MacCready sighs. “Just say your piece already, lady. It’s been a long day.”

He counts the time that passes with the sound of his heartbeats. One, two, ten, then far too many. Nothing comes out of her mouth. No sobs or tears or screaming at him for being a dumbass. Maybe she wasn’t here for him, after all. Maybe all he did today was traumatize some Vault Dweller who crawled too far out of her hole. Quiet enough to sneak into the VIP Room, quiet enough to leave without his notice, probably. With that cloak of hers and his head hung down, it would've been easy for her to. MacCready figures he had scared her off.

He had no more expectations. Him and an empty room, like always. But looking up, his brows shoot up slightly. The Vault Dweller is still here. Her fidgeting hands cause her cloak to shift her between visibility and stealth. She looks like her body is blinking in and out of existence, like how those green cursors on RobCo. terminals do. Like a superhero with forcefields and invisibility. She already has a cape.

She clears her throat. “I—uh,” she brings a hand to her mouth and coughs. “I’m sorry—I mean, it wasn’t intentional… scaring you, that is—”

MacCready feels a sneer pull on his lips. “Lady, you didn’t scare me. Why the f—heck—would I be scared of you? You crawled out of some hole in the ground, stumbling around like some baby Radstag, doe-eyed and dumb—” he stops himself. Potential client, MacCready. The bridge of his nose finds itself in between his index and thumb, and he squeezes. Hard.

“I’ll give you some advice, free of charge.” He stands up, beginning to feel antsy being so still. She’s intimidated, spooked. The step back she takes, the squeak that leaves her mouth. Those clue him in on that. “I don’t know what kind of safe haven you walked out from, thinking it’s smart sneaking up on someone with a gun, but out here? That stuff doesn’t fly. Somebody with shakier hands and an itchier finger would’ve blown your head clean off. No second thoughts.”

He nudges his head in her direction. “Taken that fancy cape of yours and that Pip-Boy on your arm. Would’ve sold them by now, too.”

The Vault Dweller tries to smile at him, but it turns out lopsided. Fake. Shaky. “Lucky me, then, huh? Getting out with just,” she takes a breath, “a gun to the face.”

“Just spit it out, lady. What do you want?”

“I—right.” She nods, grabs her cloak, stopping it from flickering. “Right,” she says softer before clearing her throat. The Vault Dweller looks him in the eye, her brows furrowing slightly. Acting tough, but she can’t hide the beads of sweat forming on her forehead. If he were any other shithead, sure. Might be impressed that she’s staring him down, even.

But if MacCready could be proud of anything about himself, it would be how he notices—the light bending ever so slightly in the far corner of a room, the faint sound of a floorboard creaking under pressure, the soft tap of his rifle’s muzzle on flesh, the beads of sweat trailing down her temples, the tremor in her hands holding the cloak down. It’s how he got to be such a damn good shot.

Is that even something for him to be proud of?

“I need to get to Diamond City—”

“Directions? All of that, and you just wanted to ask for directions?” He waves her off and goes back to his seat. Dumbass Vault Dwellers. What is it with his stupid luck and having to deal with these jackasses? “Piss off, lady, ask anybody else for damn directions.”

“Wait, listen to me—please. I don’t want directions to Diamond City, I know where it is—”

He plops into his chair, hand reaching for his pack of cigarettes. “Congrats,” he says, shaking the box, sliding a stick out. “Better start walking then, princess.”

“I have caps, please.” From under his hat, he spares her a glance. Hopeful? Desperate? MacCready isn’t so sure what that look on her face is, but it’s pitiful. Bringing the lighter to the cigarette in between his lips, he shuts up. Waits.

The Vault Dweller must have realized it, that he’s listening, because she takes a step forward. “I have caps,” she repeats, her tone slower. Less frantic. “I need to get to Diamond City, but I don’t want to—I can’t—ugh—” she pulls on her hair, obviously frustrated. “Listen, you said it yourself. I'm doe-eyed and dumb. If it were anyone but you, my head would be rolling on the floor somewhere. But I can’t die.”

A pause.

“I can't die,” she says again, her eyes drifting off. For a moment, she sounds familiar with the way she says it. Reassurance, maybe? Trying to convince herself of something. He almost laughs. It doesn't work, he wants to say, because no matter what you'll start thinking again. He's lost track of how many times he came back to those same thoughts: should've died there, can't die for Duncan, should've died there, can't die for Duncan. MacCready doesn't want to deal with that bullshit. He breathes it in, the tobacco. Keeps him from running his mouth, keeps everything still.

The Vault Dweller's gaze snaps back onto him. “I need someone to keep me alive. _Please.”_

He exhales. “Two-hundred fifty—”

She interjects with a sudden movement, tossing something onto the floor before him. The sound of bottle caps hitting tile is familiar to him, and he only needs to look at the caps spilling out of the satchel to confirm it. Taking the bag from the floor, MacCready begins to count. One, ten, fifty, one-hundred, two-fifty.

Two-fifty.

It would have been easy to ditch her here in Goodneighbor. Two-fifty caps without having to play babysitter to some tourist. Ditch her, free up the time to find work. Real work. Something involving more gunplay, and less walking Boston’s streets with some Vaultie.

If he were any younger, any smarter, maybe MacCready would still have it in him to do it. Shoot her when he had the chance. Take the caps, the cape, the Pip-Boy. All of that would’ve been enough to fund another Med-Tek dive. Hell, all that could pay for three, five, _seven_ dives. Buy Duncan all the toys that he could ever want. Get Lucy an actual grave marker. Flowers engraved in the stone and some cheesy-ass epitaph.

That might almost make up for never being able to recover her body…

Every time Lucy looked at him, she saw a good man buried beneath all that he is. MacCready isn’t. He knows he isn’t. A bastard is all he is. No good man would ever take his gun to someone else’s head for caps. No good man would ever leave his sick son alone without a father. No good man would ever lie to his wife and deprive her the pleasure of knowing the real him.

Sometimes, MacCready is confident he did the right thing by not telling her. That it was mercy. He’s seen paintings, pre-war, of what fields looked like and what flowers looked like. The Commonwealth has a lot of green. So much more than the Capital Wasteland ever had, anyway. So much more grass to step on, and trees with leaves, and flowers that glow. But in those pre-war paintings, the green doesn’t look sickly or dull or, well, glowy. The flowers came in colors that aren’t just yellow or purple; with petals that don’t crack when you touch them, or disintegrate in the wind. He was convinced, still is, that Lucy could step on cracked soil, and all of it would just sprout back. The sun would shine on her, and her alone.

She was beautiful—too beautiful. Too kind and caring and gentle. Too much like the goddesses he reads about in books. Rare books about something called mythology. Lucy is a goddess, and that makes him too much like a human: dirty, unworthy, who corrupts everything he touches, even if they are divine. It was mercy, he thinks, lying to her. Letting her believe that she was loving a god, just like she was. MacCready loves her innocence. Her willingness to forgive that this was the goddamn world they had to fucking live in. Her willingness to make things better.

In retrospect, it’s arrogant for him to think that he could ever be a god, or good enough for her. But sometimes, MacCready just wishes he told her. That it was arrogant for him, too, to think that Lucy didn’t have it in herself to love a bastard like him. To hold his face in her hands and rest her lips against his forehead. To tell him that she understood why he does everything that he does. And to tell him that she could forgive him. For being a killer, a liar, a thief.

Sometimes, he has no doubts that she would have loved him anyway if she knew.

But sometimes, he reminds himself that Lucy was just a human too, and humans are fickle.

But he tries, regardless, to be good. Because it was what Lucy saw in him. What he wants Duncan to see him as.

Well, as good a man as a mercenary like him could get, anyway.

“What are you—” the Vault Dweller interrupts his thoughts. His head shoots up, expecting her to be mad. Heh, only he could piss off an employer three seconds into employment. It would be damn hilarious, too, if every single person he worked for didn’t have dogs to sic on him. Fucking Winlock and Barnes. But she’s not mad. Anxious, maybe. Eyes flittering around the room, fingers tapping on her forearm.

God, she sure fidgets around a lot.

“We have to leave. _Now.”_

He stands up, setting the ash tray back onto the table. “Slow down, boss,” he says, trying to give her a smile. “Whitechapel won’t be too happy with us leaving cigs on the floor. The bot’s killed men for less.”

“Littering,” she mutters. “It’s the end of the world, and the one thing people still care about is littering.”

“Besides,” MacCready says, pretending not to hear her complaining. He counts everything he picked up. Four butts, and one stick he didn’t even finish halfway. He clicks his tongue. What a waste. Pocketing them, he turns his head towards her. “These things are a liability, you know? A mutt with a good nose could use these to track us down. And, uh,” he tips his hat to her, “you, more than anyone, would know that we wouldn’t want people tracking us down. Especially because we’re setting foot outside of Goodneighbor.”

The Vault Dweller pursers her lips and nods. Stiffly. “Right. _That.”_

MacCready sighs, taking his pack and rifle from the floor. “Look, boss, you kinda cut my spiel off before you paid, so I’ll give you an out.”

“An… out?”

“Yeah.” He scoffs. “Lucky you, too. Normally, I wouldn’t be so generous.” He grabs the satchel of caps she tossed him earlier, and hands it over to her. The Vault Dweller just looks at him, surprised. “Two-fifty caps nets you two weeks of my time. Every week after that is an additional seventy-five. Pay up at the start of the week, or else I’m gone.”

“I—”

“You say that you wanna get to Diamond City, but I’m getting the sense what you’re telling me ain’t the full story.”

She furrows her brows, opening her mouth to speak, but he cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “None of my business, I know, I know. Don’t worry, I’m not saying that to pry or anything. I’m just calling things the way I see it, lady. And the way I see it is you have business in Diamond City, and you don’t wanna have to look over your shoulder every goddamn time.”

The Vault Dweller turns quiet, and MacCready fights the urge to keep shifting his weight around. Should’ve kept his fat mouth shut. He had a client, two-hundred fifty caps more than when he started, and now he’s back to square one. Again.

“But listen.” He sounds too desperate. “I’m the best damn shot in the Commonwealth. Those assh—jerks—those jerks, Winlock and Barnes, have the same amount of brain power as a Radstag missing one head, and an aim twice as bad. Take me with you, and I’ll swear—I swear on my own life I’ll keep you alive.”

Nothing.

She says nothing.

Just stays so still she disappears from his sight completely. It’s impossible not to see the way light bends around her silhouette from this close, but at this point, MacCready’s convinced he’s actually scared her off. He takes his hat off and runs a hand through his hair. _Fuck_. _Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuck_ —so much for being a better person. Just once, he wants things to go his way.

Just fucking once.

He’s about to set his pack and his rifle back on the floor next to his chair when he feels a weight forced into his hand.

It’s the satchel.

“I, uh, appreciate your candor.” It sounds sarcastic to him, like this is all some big fucking joke. If she had any sort of intelligence in that head of hers, she would’ve left when she had the chance—and he gave her so many chances. Too many chances.

If he were in her shoes, he probably would’ve left the moment he saw Winlock and Barnes from the doorway. Probably wouldn’t have stuck around to see how the exchange would go down. Probably would’ve bolted once the gun was off his face. MacCready learned about self-preservation, even if he wanted nothing more than to be six feet under the ground, the moment he had something, someone, to live for.

She could stand to have a few lessons on that, the way she keeps flirting with death all the time.

But he’s thankful, regardless.

“A-and I appreciate that you were already looking out for me,” this comes out much softer. The Vault Dweller clears her throat. “I accept your terms.”

He laughs, weak, soft—out of relief, more than anything. Hiking his pack back up his shoulder, MacCready tips the brim of his hat towards her. “Boss.”


	2. MacCready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready realizes the boss is a hypocrite.

As he follows the Vault Dweller up the stairs, MacCready notices KL-E-0 in one of the seats nearest to the stage. If KL-E-0's here, then it's already pretty late. One-thirty, maybe two? On a normal day, he'd probably be drowning himself in booze right now. Then he'd wake up hungover, senses kicking in, telling him he should stop spending caps he doesn't have on tepid beer. So it's good, he thinks, that he'll be out on the road soon. There won't be enough time to think about every shitty thing you've ever done if you're too busy dodging bullets. 

Opening the door to Goodneighbor, they’re greeted by the stench of piss, a blanket of stars above them, and the sound of some of the triggermen snoring softly. Watching them makes MacCready yawn, the weight of a long day finally crashing down onto his shoulders. If the boss was a sensible person, they’d be heading to the Rexford right now. He doesn’t even care much if they don’t get food. Dinner is something MacCready could skip just fine. With caps being tight these past few months, he has needed to skip more than a meal or two to save up. Not that he saves much of his caps, anyway, spending it all on cigs and booze.

Shitty fucking dad is what he is.

MacCready feels his pockets for something, _anything_ , and all he could come up with are the butts he picked up from the floor of the VIP Room. Plus that one stick he didn’t end up finishing. Drumming his fingertips against his thigh, he decides against it. It’s been a long day, and he doesn’t need a smoke. What he needs is sleep.

She insists, however, that they’re going to Diamond City right now.

MacCready could only stare at her. That’s an absolutely stupid idea.

Not only are the two of them tired as hell (oh, she can’t hide her constant yawning from him, no matter how much she tries—these ears catch everything), but the shops are closed. If the Neighborhood Watch ghouls are snoring up a storm out here, then Daisy’s probably asleep too. That means no supplies until morning, and MacCready’s hoping to get a disguise before they leave Goodneighbor. Better for everyone if those assholes still think he's drinking himself dead in the Third Rail. Word gets out that somebody actually hired him, even after Winlock and Barnes tracked him down—no doubt about it. Him and the boss would be kill on sight.

Besides, it’s really fucking late. MacCready never enjoyed running around the Wasteland at night. The cover of darkness is an advantage he shares with everyone else. That means it’s no advantage at all. If the Gunners manage to ambush them, especially considering that he's the only gun they have, both of them would definitely be dead.

But she insists that they leave, so he asks her, “Do you have a gun?”

The Vault Dweller’s eyebrows furrow, a frown forming on her lips. “I do. In my pack, it’s a pistol.”

“Are you gonna use it?”

“Why does that matter? I hired you—”

“—to keep you alive, right. And that's exactly what I'm trying to do.”

The expression on her face tells him to just drop it. And MacCready probably would have, if this were any other job, and he were just some dick with a gun in a sea of dicks with guns. Hell, if she were at least willing to shoot a man, he would shut up. But a holstered weapon does no fucking good on the road, especially if that road is littered with damn Gunners.

He asks his question slowly, more deliberately. “If you had to, are you gonna use the gun?”

“I’m not using that damn gun,” she snaps. “I’m _never_ using that damn gun again. Why do you think I hired someone like you—”

MacCready’s jaw tightens, and both of her hands fly to her mouth. Someone like him, she says. Does she mean a murderer? Cold-blooded killer? Just another bloodthirsty asshole willing to put innocent people down if the money was right? So that’s why she hired him. To keep the blood off her hands. She’s dumb if she thinks that way. If he ends up shooting anyone, it’s because she tells him to. Where to aim, whose head to blow off, whose head to spare. Between the both of them, she'll be the one doing all the killing.

All he does is pull the trigger.

“Spare me the lecture, sweetheart. Don’t need to hear you spout crap about me being a bad person.”

The Vault Dweller flinches. In the shitty glow of the Goodneighbor streetlights, he could see her face turn red. Probably the first time she’s had a Wastelander put her in her place. She averts her eyes from his, wrapping her arms around herself.

MacCready reaches for the half-finished cigarette in his pocket and lights it. It's never pleasant to work for people who've never killed a man in their lives. Bringing the cigarette back to his lips, he breathes in. Under their employ, all he feels on his skin is Lucy's stare, reminding him that she's just a human. Fickle. Sometimes, he thinks she sees him from heaven, or the white light, or wherever it is good people go. She tells him she sees a good man when she looks at him. Like a hero in the comics. Protecting the innocent from the wrath of the world using only the might of his gun, or some shit like that. It can feel like that, sometimes, keeping helpless people safe.

But most of the time, he feels that Lucy just sees him the same way everyone else does. The same way the Vault Dweller does. Condemned to hell and coated in blood, with hands that only know how to kill. If he died now, and he tried to hold Lucy again in his arms—why the fuck does it feel like she'll combust in his embrace? He exhales slowly, letting the tobacco engulf him. The Vault Dweller's right, all he's really good for is shooting a man dead. MacCready knows this, he accepts it. Hell, he knows it so damn well that he knew he had to hide it from his wife. So why is he so pissed off that the Vault Dweller's reminding him that he's a bastard?

MacCready looks at anywhere else but her. “I'm a bad person, boss. You can't tell me anything I don't already know.”

He counts the time that passes with the sound of his heartbeats—a minute, two minutes, five, seven. After taking one more drag, MacCready lets his cigarette fall to the ground. Puts it out with the heel of his shoe.

As the smoke escapes his lips, he realizes that the Vault Dweller won't talk until he does. And so, after a while, he speaks. “I already told you Winlock and Barnes won’t be a problem. Didn’t lie when I said that.” Finally, she spares him a glance. “But I can’t just walk out of here looking like myself and expect that to go well. All I’m saying is that waiting until morning so I can buy a mask and some new clothes wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world. Especially because you don’t wanna get your hands dirty.”

He hears the sound of rubble moving about from where she’s standing. Probably more fidgeting, he doesn’t care. “It’s hard,” he says. “Keeping people clean in the Wasteland is hard.” MacCready feels his mouth dry up, but he forces the words out anyway. “I’ve been the only gun in a party once—”

A roof forms above him, and suddenly, MacCready can’t breathe. He's back here, he's back here—no. No. The lights of the metro station flicker on and off, and that's when he sees her sprawled on the ground. Those green eyes looking up at him, fuck, that feels like a gut punch. Lucy is crawling over to where he's standing, and MacCready wants nothing more than to reach her reach her reach her reach _her—damnit,_ why can't he move? The ghouls keep coming out. MacCready tries extending his arms, but all he could do is tense his muscles. Under boxcars, from inside carriages, down the other set of stairs, falling from the ceiling—they lunge. 

He feels it like he was her: long nails hooking themselves under her eyes and pulling down, tearing, exposing red and pink and bone. Despite it all, she's still crawling towards him. Lucy is just a doll to those ferals, and _God_ , she rips so easy: arm from torso, finger from hand, wisps of skin and ligament and tendon desperate to keep her together. They sever her leg from the knee down with their teeth, her blood squirting out. It paints the concrete red, splattering all over him, burning him, eating his skin away.

“Robbie…” and he just wishes he could reach out.

He hears something that doesn't belong to this memory, and it pulls him back.

The concrete of the metro station, the grunting of ferals with mouthfuls of flesh, the sight of Lucy dismembered on the floor calling his name—it all fades into the soft yellow light of a Goodneighbor lamp. Goodneighbor lamp. The Old State House’s balcony. The sign of the Third Rail—a woman. And her lips are moving. Mouthing something familiar to him: MacCready.

It’s loud, in his ears, it’s loud: his heart running itself into the wall of his chest, pumping adrenaline down his legs, demanding them to move, drowning out every sound around him. His cigarette lying burnt out on the ground, the triggermen dozing off to sleep, the triggermen casting wary glances at everyone passing by, the neon light from the Memory Den… this is Goodneighbor.

A shaky breath leaves his body.

He's in Goodneighbor.

“MacCready.”

In front of him is the Vault Dweller, brows knotted upwards, a frown marring her face—looking at him like he's crazy. And he wants to shout at her, tell her to screw off. He doesn't need her to be reminded that there's something wrong with him. He's fully aware of that already. 

“MacCready,” she repeats, her voice soft, catching him just before his thoughts came back to haunt him.

He blinks at her. “You said my name,” the way these words leave him—too breathy, too shaky, sounding too much like weakness to his ears, assaulted still by his heartbeat.

For a while, they exist in silence. It's too fast to count, the _lubb dubbs_ banging against his chest, so he loses his sense of time. How long did he spend standing in front of the Vault Dweller? Focused a bit too intently on how the air enters his nose, and leaves through his mouth, enters and leaves, enters and leaves. Eventually, everything slows down. He takes his hat off, tousles his hair. His foot taps against the ground, and somehow that makes the world real to him.

This is Goodneighbor.

And he's tired. It’s pathetic. He’s always known that he’s pathetic, but seeing ghosts on the job? MacCready runs a hand over his face. _Fuck_. How many more times does something like this have to happen before he learns he _shouldn't_ speak out of turn?

The Vault Dweller calls his name again.

“I heard you the first time,” he tells her, the words coming out more irritated than he intended. “What do you want?”

“Right.” She coughs into her hand, looking bashful. MacCready watches as she unclasps the cloak from her shoulders and holds the garb out to him. He raises a brow. “Someone—” her voice cracks, but she goes on, pretending that it didn’t. “—told me it helps, having something to hold.”

When he makes no motion to take it from her hands, the Vault Dweller sighs. “It might help you.”

He wants to laugh at her, swat that fucking cloak out of her hand. He doesn’t want help from some asshole who thinks she’s better than him. Doesn’t want help from someone who admitted all he is to her is a gun and a murderer. MacCready just wants to leave. Leave Goodneighbor, leave the boss, and walk back up to Malden. To Med-Tek. Dive headfirst into those fucking ferals. He doesn't even care anymore if he comes back home to Duncan in a less than pristine condition.

MacCready just wants to leave the fucking Commonwealth already.

“Please,” her tone is gentle. “Take it.”

But MacCready, pathetic bastard that he is, listens to her instead of himself.

In the stillness of his grasp, the cloak is a dull gray that fades into transparency. He places a finger on it, and it ripples back into view. Dull gray with breaks in the hide. MacCready’s seen a few of these before—how do they make a person disappear like that? He traces those breaks, keeping the cloak suspended in visibility, the grip of Deathclaw leather rough against his own callouses.

“I don’t wanna stick around here any longer,” he tells her, tearing himself away from the cloak. Doesn’t want her help, he says. Fucking pansy he is, playing around with shit like this, as if it would make things better.

Fixing the strap of his rifle, MacCready heads towards the gate leading out of Goodneighbor.

“Wait.”

He raises an eyebrow, and walks back to her. “Didn’t you have something in Diamond City? Thought you’d be happier now that I’m shutting my fat mouth up and following orders, boss.”

The Vault Dweller gives him a smile, a small one. She looks more cautious than friendly, and he feels patronized more than anything else. “We could stay here for a while—”

A sneer pulls at his face. “Cut the crap, lady. Don’t pretend you wanna listen to what I have to say—and stop looking at me like I’m some sort of loon.”

“Right, you’re right,” the Vault Dweller runs a hand through her black hair, and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, MacCready—” his eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t mean to—what I said earlier—” she fumbles through her words, but he’s just surprised she even apologized. Not a lot of assholes can even bring themselves to think of saying sorry. Him included. He scratches the back of his neck. Whatever. It's not like apologies even matter, anyway.

MacCready sighs. “Let’s just go.”

“If you wear my cloak, would you still need a mask?”

“The… cloak?”

The Vault Dweller purses her lips before nodding. “I realize that it won’t help much, being on the move and all that. But you said you needed clothes. It’s a bit short on you, but it’ll hide enough, I think. And if you really need to disappear… well, you’re familiar with it.”

“But boss—”

“ _I know_ ,” she snaps, throwing him off a bit. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I know. You said it earlier, back in the bar. You know what it’s worth.” Fidgets with the Pip-Boy on her arm. “You know what this is worth, too. If you were anyone else, you would’ve killed me by now and sold the loot. Wearing this, you could leave me for dead out there, and I wouldn’t even realize, I know that…”

The Vault Dweller looks him straight in his eyes. “But you said it’s hard, being the only gun in the party.”

What she wants to say is crystal to him: I trust you.

Out in the Wasteland, trusting someone is a gamble that rarely pays off. It's stupid— _she's_ stupid, putting all this trust on someone she doesn't even know. But he can't say it doesn't feel nice. To have someone believe in him more than he believes in himself. If only the cloak came from someone who isn't such a self-righteous prick.

“The cloak’s enough to tide us to Diamond City, but having a mask would still be ideal. If we get ambushed, I can’t guarantee there won’t be stragglers.”

She smiles at him, a giggle escaping from her lips. “Thought you were the best damn shot in the Commonwealth.”

MacCready rolls his eyes and, despite himself, a soft chuckle leaves his lips. “Best damn shot in the Commonwealth’s still human, boss.” He throws the cloak over himself and clasps it, before nodding at the Vault Dweller. “You stick out like a sore thumb without the cloak, you know that? If we’re ambushed, and someone gets out alive? Sees my face? That suit of yours gets tacked onto me, and you’ll end up with a bounty, too.”

She’s quiet for a heartbeat, two, three. The Vault Dweller presses her hands pressed against her lips. She looks at the triggermen, heads nodding off despite their firm grips on their guns. The motion is quick, and MacCready realizes that she never needed the cloak to sneak up on him in the first place. Why does she even need creep around like that right now? The town’s practically dead this time of night. They could raise hell out here, and no one would even notice. Still, MacCready follows her towards the gate leading out of Goodneighbor, trying to be as quiet as she is.

He watches her eyes skirt between KL-E-0's store and Daisy's, her lips pursed as she inspects both places. Every now and again her gaze drifts off to the Neighborhood Watch.

“Wait here,” she tells him in a whisper. Without waiting for his response, she heads into Daisy's store.

That’s when MacCready sees what caught her eye. In the busted fridge Daisy uses as a display is a gas mask, and he realizes _shit—_ she’s stealing from Daisy. If he wasn’t enjoying the irony of it all, he probably would have shot her. Help protect the merchandise and all that. Daisy's good people. A friend, even. But no. Let the Vault Dweller stoop to his level. He feels a smile tug at his lips. So the boss is a sneak, a thief, and a hypocrite, huh? Daisy would understand if he explained it to her.

She doesn’t head back immediately after grabbing the mask from the fridge. Instead she leaves a satchel on the counter, like the one she had tossed him earlier. He notices a dull glint from inside the satchel. Caps, huh? And judging from the size of the satchel, a lot of them. The damn mask is probably just ten caps at most. The amount she's leaving on the counter—that's just fucking overkill. MacCready watches as she slinks back over to him. Should’ve just kept the money to herself. Leaving caps on a countertop doesn’t erase the fact she stole something. She's still an asshole, like the rest of them.

The Vault Dweller shoves the mask in his hands. Amused, MacCready takes his hat off, and stuffs it into his pack. “Impressive, boss,” he says, putting the mask on. “If you just did that earlier, we would’ve been in Diamond City by now.”

“Please stop talking—”

The door to the Old State House opens, jolting the triggermen awake.

Mayor Hancock steps out, immediately taking his knife out of his sheath. He tosses it up and catches it, over and over, making a spectacle of himself as he makes his way towards them. The way he's handling his knife causes MacCready's eyes to narrow. What exactly is Hancock getting at? Looking to stab someone, or just scare them senseless? MacCready's eyes dart to the Vault Dweller. Hancock probably knows she stole the mask from Daisy. Nothing happens in Goodneighbor without the mayor knowing. MacCready waits for her to cry, to fidget, to scurry behind him as the figure of Hancock gets closer, but she doesn't even flinch. Well, Hancock doesn't want the Vault Dweller dead, at least. Wouldn't be flaunting his knife like that if he did.

Hell, if Hancock wanted the Vault Dweller dead, she already would be.

Confident as he is that Hancock won't try to kill his boss, it never hurts to be safe. The Vault Dweller paid him to keep her alive, and that's exactly what MacCready intends to do. No amount of caps would make burying a bullet in Hancock's head a pleasant experience, but a job is a job. Readying his rifle, his eyes survey the vicinity. Two triggermen. No sign of Hancock's little red-head bodyguard. Can't even see her through the Old State House's windows. Of course, there's always the possibility that Fahrenheit's just hiding, waiting to flank them. If it gets ugly, him and the boss could probably just duck out of the gate.

Probably.

Hancock stops in front of them, catching his knife at the handle with a grin.

“Mayor Hancock,” the Vault Dweller greets him. That's the steadiest MacCready's ever heard her voice.

“Looks like you got the kid on a leash,” Hancock tells her, before turning to him. “Good to see you out of that basement, MacCready.” 

MacCready gives him a nod. “Good to see you too, Hancock.”

“So,” Hancock starts, brandishing his knife, letting its sharp edge catch the light, “is the goon squad heading out any time soon?”

Before the Vault Dweller could say anything, Hancock drives his knife towards her throat. MacCready’s rifle shoots upwards, pressed flush against Hancock’s temple. The triggermen around them, awake from this commotion, hoist their guns up, putting MacCready in their line of fire. But no one shoots. From behind the mask, he watches the knife against her neck. Hancock stopped short of drawing any blood, but was pressing down hard enough to leave an impression on her skin. As long as the mayor isn't hurting her, there's really no reason to shoot.

“Glad to know all the booze and cigs haven’t dulled up you up, kid,” Hancock says, his free hand gesturing the Neighborhood Watch to stand down.

MacCready scoffs. “It’ll take more than that junk to mess me up, Hancock, and you know it.”

“I had to see it with my own two eyes. The Commonwealth's grown a hell of a lot rougher since you holed up in the Rail.” The moment Hancock withdraws his knife, MacCready lowers his rifle. “Sorry 'bout that, kitten,” Hancock tells the Vault Dweller. “Just gotta make sure our little friend here’s up to snuff, seeing as your merry little band’s leaving the safety of my humble township.”

MacCready notices the shaking of her hands, the beads of sweat trailing down her forehead, the paleness of her cheeks. Still, the Vault Dweller doesn’t fall to the ground, or crumple up in tears the same way she did in the face of his rifle.

“Thank you,” she says, sounding more than a bit strained.

MacCready tosses his rifle's sling back onto his shoulder. “If you’re done terrorizing the lady, Hancock—”

Hancock laughs, sheathing his knife. “Terrorizing’s not how I would phrase it, brother. More like giving a friend a reminder. Tough love, if you will.”

He turns to look at the Vault Dweller. “I have to say, for a vault dweller, you sure do have soft paws, kitten—” and for the first time since Hancock came out, the Vault Dweller loses her composure.

The mayor gives her a wide grin. “You belong in Goodneighbor more than you let on. And I appreciate you embracing the way of a lowlife to protect our mutual friend here. In fact, your little Robin Hood act, pilfering for the sake of others and what have you, made me feel like stepping out of the Old State House. Do the mayorly thing and let my two favorite travelers know,” he lifts his eyes towards MacCready, gives him a subtle nod, “that a Gunner encampment’s sprouted up just outside of Goodneighbor.”

MacCready searches in Hancock’s face, in his eyes, for any trace of humor, any sign that could tell him that this is just a bad joke. Waiting for the corners of his mouth to twitch. A laugh, a slap on the back. _Got you good, didn't I, MacCready?_ , he’d say. And then the mayor would let them go on their way, off to Diamond City.

But there is none of that.

“They’re blocking off the way to Malden, kid.” MacCready feels his chest tighten. Shit. Shit shit _shit shit_ —should’ve just gotten the cure in one dive, _fuck_. Now, no matter what the hell he does in Med-Tek, those assholes are gonna think it’s a job. He bites the inside of his cheek. What would he do if they get the cure before he does—

Hancock takes his hand and forces something there. It’s a pack of cigarettes. “Let me tell you now, Vault Dweller. Not too wise of you to let the kid roam free without cigs. Try not to make the same mistake again.”

“Stop making me sound like an addict, Hancock—”

“Hey, sometimes people need shit to get through the day, I don't judge. Hell, I'm the last ghoul on this earth qualified to judge. I'm just here to provide, kid, and all you need to say is thank you. Now, where was I?” Hancock clears his throat. “Listen, Goodneighbor can’t really dip its toes into the fray without racking up some serious casualties. So when you free agents find it in your charitable little hearts to serve up some vigilante justice, I will be a very grateful man—”

“Hancock,” the way she draws out his name sounds like a plea to MacCready’s ears. “Please, we have to go.”

“And I don’t mean to keep you, friend. Truly.” He passes a bag into the hands of the Vault Dweller. “I appreciate what you did, paying Daisy back like that—” her back stiffens. “—but I can assure you there's a hell of a lot more in this bag than the bag you left on her pretty little countertop. Whatever your intentions were, Vault Dweller, you still stole from my people. And I think that makes you indebted to Goodneighbor.

“I don’t expect you to pay us back anytime soon. But as the mayor, I’m entitled to hold a grudge against you if you don’t even try to. After you’ve found whatever it is that gives you peace, kitten, you’ll help eradicate those assholes littered across the Commonwealth. Starting from those douchebags making a home right outside of Goodneighbor.”

Shrugging, the mayor starts walking back to the Old State House. “Maybe you’ll do it along the way. Hell if I know, so long as you get the job done. Would be a damn shame if I had to play debt collector.” He stops, turning to give the Vault Dweller a final look. “I happen to be fond of you, kitten, and I enjoy seeing the people I’m fond of alive. So let’s agree to keep you breathing, shall we?”

There is a pause before Hancock opens the door. “Keep each other safe, you two.”

With that, Hancock disappears into the Old State House, and the two of them head out. As MacCready closes the gate to Goodneighbor behind them, the Vault Dweller vomits on the pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i firmly believe that pre-the big dig hancock would _definitely_ threaten the sosu if they stole from anyone in goodneighbor; he's such a delight to write aaa


	3. Nerissa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerissa and MacCready head to Diamond City.

“Whenever you’re ready, boss.”

MacCready’s muffled voice snaps her back to the present, but Nerissa doesn’t want to move. There’s no way she could ever be ready for this. It disgusts her to admit that she’s comfortable just staying here. Shaun is _out there_ , in the hands of the man who murdered her husband. She should be tearing the Wasteland apart right now trying to get him back—so why is that all she wants to do right now is rot?

Right here, sitting just outside of Goodneighbor, on the dirty pavement beside her own vomit, all Nerissa wants to do is rot.

It’s been a week since she left Sanctuary Hills. When she left, she was confident, and she thought that confidence was earned. After all, the Philippines under the Chinese occupation wasn’t kind, and her mother and grandmother were harsh teachers.

Her mother stuck a sewing needle with pink thread in one of her hands and pushed her towards a crying child with a laceration on his forearm. There are no doctors in the mountains, her mother said, so you will have to do. And her grandmother pried open her balled-up fists. Forced a gun into her grip. Told her that if God was kind, then you wouldn’t need to know how to shoot. Lining up tin cans for target practice, her grandmother reminded her that gods are rarely benevolent.

But this world has made it painfully clear that Nerissa doesn’t belong here. If her nanay and lola could see her, Nerissa knows they’d slap her dumb. They’d tell her they taught her everything she needs to know—Nerissa _knows_ everything she needs to know. Rather than dusting herself off and moving on, here she is wallowing. She could almost hear their voices: get a fucking grip, hija.

She fidgets with her wedding band. That bullet should have found her, instead.

If Nate were the one who thawed out, then Nerissa has no doubts: Shaun would be safe, sound asleep in her husband’s arms. And he would never get lost. He would never have to steal from those who lead honest lives. He would never find himself knifepoint, cursing his luck, and wishing Hancock had just slit his throat when he had the chance—her fingers trace where the mayor’s sharp edge had been.

“Boss?” and she’s reminded that she’s not alone.

Nerissa shakes her head, as though doing that would push all her thoughts aside. It never works. Of course it never works. Walking through this damn Wasteland is a constant reminder of what she’s lost. But she’s allowed herself to shut down for far too long. She checks the time on her Pip-Boy. Three thirty-six. She frowns. All that shit she spouted about MacCready wasting time—and here she is, doing the fucking same.

Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, she stands up. “To Diamond City, then.”

MacCready nods and unslings his rifle from his shoulder. He starts walking, and she follows. But they’re not even out of the neon glow of Goodneighbor’s signs when he stops. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he guides her into a crouch.

“Over there,” MacCready whispers, aiming his gun. Her eyes follow the length of his rifle to barricades that weren’t there yesterday when she stumbled through here. Scattered on the road in front of the barricades are mines. And beyond all that, she sees exactly what MacCready is pointing at. Illuminated by a fire are three people armed with laser weapons.

Before them, on his knees, with his hands cuffed behind his back, is another man. These people strip their prisoner of his armor and—

They start beating him. The stock of a rifle hits his stomach, and the man is coughing up blood. It’s barely audible but she hears it: metal being brought against flesh, groaning and pleading, _please_ , _stop_. Nerissa’s mouth runs dry. Someone pulls out a cigarette and a lighter from their pocket, taking a drag just to blow the smoke into his face. The poor man is in the middle of a coughing fit when the cigarette is pushed into his arm.

His scream rips through the quiet of the night.

“The Gunners Hancock was telling us about,” MacCready says, “there they are.”

There’s a twitch in her right index finger and, suddenly, the 10mm in her pack is heavy. A distant memory prods at her, reminding her that death is kindness. That if she were to take the shot right now, she would do this prisoner a service. Nerissa bites down on her finger, trying to will the urge away. Nate wouldn’t want to know that she killed another man—she’s already killed far too many since leaving Sanctuary Hills.

“You can see it in the armor they took off.” Her eyes dart towards MacCready. “Guy getting beat up is a conscript,” he tells her, his tone cold. “They don’t let you wear good armor until you’re somebody to them. If you live long enough to be somebody, that is.”

The Gunners slowly turn into background din when she notices MacCready’s stillness. He flickers out of her sight, but he every heavy breath he takes forces him back into visible light. It’s hard to keep your eyes off of a man getting beaten, but MacCready’s silence—it’s far too familiar for her to ignore.

She watches his hunched figure with knitted brows. Sometimes, it’s thrashing, receiving a punch meant for a memory, being greeted by the barrel of a gun. She’s seen this far too often in the soldiers who come back from a campaign alive. Nerissa presses her lips down into a tight line. But sometimes, it’s quiet, getting trapped in your own mind, drowning in a sea of everything you want to forget.

She was about to say his name when MacCready clears his throat.

“He probably screwed up a contract, that’s why,” he says, and she tries to pretend she didn’t hear the crack in his voice. MacCready’s voice grows softer when he says, “Maybe he didn’t know what to do. Or maybe he put a bullet in the wrong person. Maybe he asked too many questions. Hell, maybe they just wanted to beat him. With the way they’re laughing, it looks like they’re having a blast, right? Sick freaks.”

Her heart drops to her stomach. “MacCready…”

“Wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened in a Gunner camp.”

Without another word, MacCready walks away. She blinks, surprised by his sudden movement, barely stopping herself from calling after him. Sparing one last glance at the Gunners, Nerissa saunters after him.

It feels wrong to leave, knowing that behind her is a man getting beaten. To death? Maybe not. Maybe they’d only beat him within an inch of his life. With how MacCready talked about the Gunners, she wouldn’t be surprised if they left him alive, just so they can do this all over again. She bites her lip. No matter how conflicted it made her feel, leaving is the smart thing to do. These are the people hunting MacCready down. Doing anything rash leaves a trail for them to follow.

Still, walking away feels like she’s condemning a man to hell. The conscript’s screams bleed into her ears, etching a home into her brain. The thud of a gun’s butt hitting muscle, and fists leaving bruises on flesh, and laughter—shit, the cackling—why do they sound like she’s still so close? Nerissa looks back, but all she sees is the Wasteland. Her left hand absentmindedly brushes over her torn right sleeve and the scabs that formed over her week-old wounds. That’s one more memory the Wasteland has branded onto her, it seems.

Nerissa doesn’t notice MacCready stopped walking until her forehead hits his back. Mumbling an apology, she takes a step back.

“Why’d you stop?” but MacCready doesn’t answer her directly. He only instructs her to stay low, and stick close to the walls. “Are there Gunners here, too?”

MacCready surprises her by chuckling. “Gunners aren’t the only dangers the Commonwealth has to offer, boss.”

Nerissa quickly surveys the area. Dimly lit by streetlamps with flickering bulbs, the wrought iron fence is broken and rusting, crudely patched up with mismatched plywood. The space is open, from what she could see. Had it not been so dark, she would say it were impossible to hide among the dead grass or behind the charred trees. She looks under the blasted-out cars they’re passing by, but there are no bodies lying beneath them.

Her brows furrow as she tries to identify a threat. All she sees, however, is the remnant of what looks to be an urban park. “What are we hiding from, then?” she asks, turning her attention back to MacCready. “If not Gunners, that is.”

He turns his head towards her slightly. “You ever heard of Boston Common?”

MacCready’s voice starts to sound more distant as Nerissa finds herself distracted by Boston Common.

Her chest tightens as she takes everything in: the grass that could have been lush and vibrant; the trees that could have housed squirrels, or pigeons, or other animals she never got to see; and the swan boats. Oh, the swan boats. Pushing against each other, abandoned on the edge of the pond, never to be ridden by anyone again.

She feels a quiver in her lips, and she bites down to steady herself. The first thing we’ll do when we move to Boston is ride the swan boats, or so Nate’s promise went. A promise he sealed by brushing the hair away from her face, and planting a kiss on her forehead.

“—something about a swan.”

Her gaze snaps back to MacCready. “Pardon?”

“Dumb, right?” He snorts. “No one really knows why the people who go in the Common don’t come back out,” he says. “So the raiders around here say it’s a swan that kills them or some crap.”

A frown tugs at her lips. “Swan,” she says. “Like those swan boats? They’re lethal?”

His laughter is muffled by his mask. “Maybe.”

She tears her eyes away from the park, planting her gaze firmly on the ground.

It’s pathetic, Nerissa concludes, that she’s so distracted by the state of Boston Common. There are so many other things demanding her attention. So many other things to be rightfully sad about. Right now, there could be Gunners looking for them. Gunners, who are cruel, and bloodthirsty; who remind her about some of the worst parts of humanity which seems to surface in the face of war. A pang of guilt stabs her. The conscript could still be on his knees, receiving the butt of a rifle against his body; getting seared by a cigarette lit just to hurt him.

Right now, her infant son is in this godforsaken Wasteland, and she doesn’t know where he is. Shaun could be in the arms of her husband’s murderer, that bastard. She bites her bottom lip. Or Shaun could be lying discarded somewhere, crying for his mother—Shaun could be fucking dead, and here she is: sad that she can’t ride swan boats anymore. Nerissa bites herself harder, as though that would assuage her being such a shitty mother. A thought tries to push itself towards the front, promising to provide comfort—but it’s just an excuse. Panindigan mo ‘to, she could almost hear her nanay say. She reminds herself that she wanted this.

Nerissa wanted this.

“Boss,” she lifts her eyes from the ground, and she’s greeted by the gas mask covering MacCready’s face. The gas mask you stole, she reminds herself, an impulse to bite down harder takes over her—she winces, forcing her teeth to let go of her lips. It’s sudden: MacCready brings a finger to her mouth and presses against where she bit. The gas mask makes it seem like he’s looking at her directly.

“You’re bleeding,” he says flatly.

Her hand follows his motion: a finger against the part of her lip where she bit. A small amount of blood transfers onto her finger. “Oh.”

He sighs, wiping her blood on the part of his duster sticking out from under the cloak. “Don’t bite yourself,” he tells her, tone surprisingly gentle. MacCready turns away from her. “It’s weird.”

Nerissa blinks, warmth spreading across her face. “Sorry.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Diamond City’s not too far off now,” and then he walks away.

She casts a look over her shoulder to see that Boston Common was already gone from view. Taking a deep breath, she bounds after him. Silence falls between them quickly, punctuated only by the soles of their shoes hitting the pavement. The silence stopped being comforting three months ago when she thawed out, often inviting thoughts she doesn’t want to confront. Like how she thawed out three months ago, but instead of looking for Shaun immediately, she decided to stick around and indulge in her woe-is-me pity party of one—

“Hey,” she calls after MacCready, deciding to fill up the quiet with idle chatter. “What do you think it was like? Boston Common before the war, that is.”

“So we’re talking now, are we?” The laugh that leaves him sounds more like a forced exhale. “What does it matter? That’s the Common we have.”

Her eyes trace the buildings, with walls crumbling, and scaffolding exposed and bent; the streetlamps either flickering or uprooted, sprawled against the cracked roads; the rubble that blocked pathways that were probably well-travelled in the past. This is what they have. “You’re right, it’s dumb.”

Nerissa sighs. “But I suppose it would’ve been a sight to see,” she admits. “I’ve always wanted to visit Boston Common—th-that is, I mean, pre-war Boston Common.”

“Why’d you want to go visit some glorified graveyard?”

“I didn’t know Boston Common was a graveyard.”

“I guess not all of it was a graveyard,” MacCready mutters. “Some of parts of it were, and I think there was a memorial or something for some massacre.” He snorts. “If you ask me, that’s a weird place to want to have a picnic.”

She couldn’t help but giggle.

“How do you know that?” she asks.

MacCready shrugs. “Didn’t have anything else to read, so I picked up one of the books lying around the Old State House,” he says. “The only book that wasn’t burnt to hell was about the Common, and I thought: why not? Wasn’t like I was doing anything else.”

“I… didn’t have you pegged as the type to read.”

“Why, cause I’m just some jerk with a gun? Just some illiterate wastelander who’s only good for shooting?” He scoffs. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss.”

Her eyes grow wide, heat creeping up her cheeks. Nerissa tears her gaze away from MacCready—she hadn’t intended to offend him. Her thoughts drift off to their earlier exchange in Goodneighbor. He told her that he already knows. He’s a bad person, he said, and he already knows that. She had wondered why his reaction to her was so visceral, and now she just feels stupid. Of course he would be hostile, Nerissa—you implied that he’s just a killer. She chews the inside of her cheek. No one wants to be reminded of every shitty thing they’ve ever done.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t think you’re illiterate. I don’t think you’re just some jerk with a gun, either. I’m sorry—the things I said, I didn’t mean—” but she _had_ meant everything she said about him. What left her mouth carried conviction, and to deny that would be nothing more than making excuses—and she’s not about to give this man a half-assed apology.

He told her that he’s a bad person, and maybe he is. But why should that matter? Nerissa’s just as bad a person as he is. She twists her wedding band. Perhaps even worse. Nate made her believe that she could be good. That if she left the Philippines, the war wouldn’t ruin her, and she could be good.

It’s been a week since she left Sanctuary Hills. Despite how much her hands shook, she still pulled her pistol’s trigger. Multiple times. Nate would hate her for acting like she’s spotless. Hell, he probably already hates her for a myriad of reasons. For waiting three months before she decided to leave Sanctuary Hills. For killing those raiders instead of incapacitating them. For stealing caps from Drumlin Diner, for stealing that gas mask from Goodneighbor. Good people would stay good, even if they were plunged into a world like this.

Maybe she does belong in the Commonwealth.

Nerissa turns her eyes groundward, watching her feet kick pebbles from the road. “I’m sorry for acting the way I did, especially back in Goodneighbor,” she says. She looks back at MacCready, his head facing straight forward, disregarding her completely. Rifle resting comfortably in his hands. Fingers tapping away at its forestock. “It was callous of me to assume anything about you.”

When he doesn’t respond to her, she just hangs her head. “I’m sorry, MacCready.”

A hush falls between them again, but everything else is louder: the groaning of metal beams, the distant gunshots, the _tap, tap, tap_ of fingernails on a rifle. MacCready breaks the silence with a sigh.

“I don’t know yours.”

Nerissa blinks, turning her head towards him. “Mine?”

“Your name,” he tells her. “I don’t know your name.” And perhaps it took her too long to answer because the tapping grows frantic. “Look, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, and I don’t know. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe I’ve been unfair—” his fingers stop drumming against his rifle.

“You’ve been nicer to me than most people I’ve worked for,” he tells her, voice growing quieter with each word. “In my books, that counts for something.”

She feels the fast-paced thrum of her heart against her chest, filling her with a warmth she thought extinct. Nerissa hadn’t realized a person could be deprived of kindness, and that it could cause tears to prick her eyes, and subsequently, her to blink them away. The quiet gives way to mismatched footsteps of two people walking side-by-side. This exchange doesn’t make them friends, but it’s a welcome reprieve from what she’s seen so far of Wasteland.

A smile paints itself onto her face. “It’s Nerissa.”

It’s soft, muffled by his gas mask, but she hears him say it back: “Nerissa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nanay means mother  
> lola means grandmother  
> hija is spanish for daughter; the ph was colonized by spain, so some older people use hija to refer to younger women (not exclusive to their daughters/granddaughters)  
> when nerissa thinks her nanay would tell her "panindigan mo 'to" it means nerissa should stand by the decisions she made; direct translation would be "stand for/by this"
> 
> ✽✽✽
> 
>   
> this chapter was a beast to write! send love thru kudos and comments (if you want, that is hehe). always a delight to see you guys enjoy my work, and i would love to hear your thoughts about everything thus far <3 


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